"A camera? No. Why?" inquired Blake.

"Well, I happen to need some San Francisco street scenes for one of the dramas," went on the theatrical man; "and it occurred to me that you could get them when you weren't busy."

"Of course we could," answered Joe. "We can take the automatic, and set it up wherever you say, and go looking for that shipping agent. When we come back we'll have all the pictures we need."

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Ringold. "Try that, if you don't mind. Get some scenes down in the financial district, and others in the residential section. Then, as long as you have to go to the shipping offices, get some there."

The boys promised they would, and added the small but compact automatic camera to their luggage as they started off.

This camera worked by compressed air. There was a small motor inside, operated by a cylinder of air that could be filled by an ordinary bicycle pump. Otherwise it was just like the other moving picture cameras.

There was the upper box, in which was wound the unexposed reel of film. From this it went over a roller, and the cog wheel, which engaged in the perforations, thence down by means of the "gate," behind the lens and shutter. There two claws reached up and grasped the film as the motor operated, pulling down three-quarters of an inch each time, to be exposed as the shutter was automatically opened in front of the lens.

Each one of the thousands of moving pictures, as I have explained in previous books, is three-quarters of an inch deep, though, of course, on the screen it is enormously enlarged.

After the film has been exposed, three-quarters of an inch at a time, it goes below into another light-tight box of the camera, whence it is removed to be developed and printed. The movement of the film, the operation of the claws and the opening and closing of the shutter, making it possible to take sixteen pictures a second, was, in this camera, all controlled by the air motor.

Joe and Blake found much to amuse them in San Francisco, which they had never before visited. They were a bit "green," but after their experiences in New York they had no trouble in finding their way around.

"We'd better go to some hotel, or boarding house," suggested Joe, after their arrival. "Pick out one where we can leave the camera working while we're gone."

They did this, being fortunate enough to secure rooms in a good, though not expensive, hotel near the financial district. One of their windows looked directly out on a busy scene.

"That'll be just the place, and the sort of scene Mr. Ringold wants," declared Blake. "Let's set the camera there on the sill and see what it gets. The light is good to-day."

It was, the sun shining brightly, and being directly back of the camera, which would insure the proper illumination.

They adjusted the machine, and set the mechanism to go off about an hour after they had left the room. Then they went to find the shipping agent, to see if they could get any news of Joe's father.

But, to their disappointment, he was out, and none of the clerks could tell them what they wanted to know. They were directed to return the next day.

"More disappointment!" exclaimed Joe. "It does seem as if I was up against it, Blake."

"Oh, don't worry. To-morrow will do just as well as to-day. And you don't want to get in C. C.'s habit, you know."

"No, that's right. Well, what shall we do?"

"Let's look around a bit, and then go see how the camera is working."

They found so much to interest them in the streets of San Francisco that they did not go back to the hotel as soon as they had intended. When they did reach the street on which it stood they saw a crowd gathered.

"Look at that!" cried Blake.

"Yes! Maybe it's a fire!" exclaimed Joe. "Our camera——"

"There's no fire, or else we'd see some smoke," answered his chum. "But we'll see what it is. There's been some sort of an accident, that's sure."

They broke into a run, pushing their way through the throng about the front doors of the hotel. As they entered the lobby, they were surprised to see the clerk point his finger at them, and exclaim:

"There are the two lads now!"

Everyone turned to look at Joe and Blake, and a man, dressed in some sort of uniform, approached them.

"Are you the lads that have rooms sixty-six and sixty-seven?" he asked, sharply.

"Yes," replied Blake.

"Why, has anything happened there?" asked Joe.

"Well, yes, there has, and we thought perhaps you could explain."

"Have we been robbed?" burst out Blake.

"Robbed? No," answered the clerk. "But——"

"Perhaps I had better explain," put in the uniformed man. "I think I shall have to ask you boys to come with me," he went on.

"Come where?" Joe wanted to know.

"To police headquarters."

"What for?" burst out Blake. "We haven't done anything! We only came here to——"

"Be careful," warned the man in uniform. "Whatever you say may be used against you."

"Why—why?" stammered Joe. "What's it all about?"

"An infernal machine!" exclaimed the hotel clerk. "How dare you poke one out of the window, right toward one of our largest banks, and go out, leaving the mechanism clicking? How dare you?"

Joe and Blake staggered back, half amused and half alarmed at the strange charge.



CHAPTER XII

ON A LONG VOYAGE

"This is a serious charge," went on the man in uniform, who was evidently from the police department. "We have had some dynamiting outrages here, and we don't want any more."

"Dynamite!" exclaimed the hotel clerk; "do you think it could be that, officer?"

"That's what it seems like to me," said the other. "I have investigated a number of infernal machines, and they all make the same sort of sound before they go off."

"Go off!" cried the clerk, while Joe and Blake were vainly endeavoring to get in a word that would explain matters. "If it's dynamite, and goes off here, it will blow up the hotel. Get it away! Porter, go up and get that infernal machine, and dump it in a pail of water."

"'Scuse me!" exclaimed the colored porter, as he made a break for the door. "I—I guess as how it's time fo' me to sweep off de sidewalk. It hain't been swept dish yeah day, as yit. I'se gwine outside."

"But we've got to get rid of that infernal machine!" insisted the clerk. "It's been clicking away now for some time, and there's no telling when it may go off. Get it, somebody—throw it out of the window."

"No! Don't do that!" cried the officer. "That will only make it go off the sooner. I'll get some one from the bureau of combustibles and——"

"Say, you're giving yourselves a needless lot of alarm!" interrupted Blake. "That's no infernal machine!"

"No more than that ink bottle is!" added Joe, pointing to one on the clerk's desk.

"But it clicks," insisted the clerk. "It sounds just like a clock ticking inside that box."

"And it's pointing right at the bank," went on the officer. "That bank was once partly wrecked because it was built by non-union labor, and we don't want it to happen again."

"There's no danger—not the slightest," cried Blake, while the crowd in the hotel lobby pressed around him. "That's only an automatic moving picture camera, that we set this morning, and pointed out of the window to take street scenes. It works by compressed air, and the clicking you hear is the motor. Come, I'll show you," and he started toward his room, followed by Joe.

"Is—is that right?" asked the hotel clerk, doubtfully.

"Are you sure it isn't dynamite?" inquired the officer.

"Well, if we're not afraid to take a chance in going in the same room with what you call an infernal machine, you ought not to be," said Joe, with a smile.

This was logic that could not be refuted, and they followed the boys to the room. There, just where they had left it, was the camera, the motor clicking away industriously. It worked intermittently, running for five minutes, and then ceasing for half an hour, so as not to use up the reel of film too quickly. Also, it made a diversity of street scenes, an automatic arrangement swinging the lens slightly after each series of views, so as to get the new ones at a different angle.

"Now we'll show you," said Blake, as, having noted that all the film was run out, and was in the light-tight exposed box, he opened the camera and showed the harmless mechanism. Several of the hotel employees crowded into the room, once they learned there was no danger.

The boys explained the working of the apparatus, and this seemed to satisfy the officer.

"But we were surely suspicious of you at first," he said, with a smile.

"Yes," said the clerk. "A chambermaid called my attention to the clicking sound when she was making up the room. I investigated, and when I heard it, and saw the queer box, and remembered that we had had dynamiting here, I sent for the police."

"We're sorry to have given you a scare," said Blake, and then the incident was over, and the crowd in the street dispersed on learning there was to be no sensation.

"Say, I think there's some sort of hoodoo about us," remarked Joe, as he and Blake sat in their room.

"Why, you're not going to come any of that gloomy C. C. business on me; are you?" asked Blake.

"Not at all," went on his chum. "But what I mean by a hoodoo is that something always seems to happen when we start out anywhere. We've been on the jump, you might say, ever since we lost our places on the farms and got into this moving picture business."

"That's so. And the latest is being taken for dynamiters."

"Yes. But if things are going to keep on happening to us I wish they'd take a turn and help me find my father," went on Joe. "You don't know how it feels, Blake, to know you've got a parent somewhere and not be able to locate him. It's—why, it's almost as bad as if—as if he were dead," and Joe spoke the words with an obvious effort.

"That's right," agreed Blake, and then there came to him the memory of what the lighthouse keeper had said about Mr. Duncan being implicated in the wrecking. If this was true, it might be better for Joe not to find his father.

"But he may not be guilty," thought Blake, and he mused on this possibility, while Joe looked curiously at his chum.

"Say, Blake," suddenly asked Joe. "What's the matter?"

"Matter? Why, what do you mean?" asked Blake, with a start.

"Oh, I don't know, but something seems to be the matter with you. You've acted strangely of late, ever since—yes, ever since we were at the lighthouse. Is anything troubling you?"

"No—no—not at all; that is, not exactly."

"You don't speak as if you meant it."

"But I do, Joe. There's nothing the matter with me—really there isn't."

"Well, I'm glad of it. If there is, and you need help, don't forget to come to me. Remember we're pards, and chums, not only in the moving picture business, but in everything else, Blake. Anything I've got is yours for the asking."

"That's good of you, Joe, and if you can help me I'll let you know. I didn't realize that I was acting any way strange. I must brighten up a bit. I guess we've both been working too hard. We need some amusement. Let's go to a moving picture show to-night, and see how they run things here, and what sort of films they have. We may even see one of our own."

"All right. I'll go you. We can't see that shipping agent until to-morrow. A moving picture show for ours to-night, then. Though, being in the business, as we are, it's rather like a fireman going around to the engine-house on his day off, and staying there—a queer sort of a day's vacation."

But, nevertheless, they thoroughly enjoyed the moving picture play, interspersed, as it was, with vaudeville acts. Among the films were several that Mr. Ringold's company had posed for, and several that the boys themselves had taken. The reels were good ones, too, the pictures standing out clear and bright as evidence of good work on the part of the boys and Mr. Hadley.

"Had enough?" asked Joe, after about an hour spent in the theatre.

"Yes, let's go out and take a walk."

"Feel any brighter?" went on Joe.

"Yes, I think I do," and Blake linked his arm in that of Joe, wondering the while, as they tramped on, how he should ever break the news to his chum, in case Joe himself did not find it out. "The only hope is that he isn't guilty," mused Blake, "and yet running away just before the accusation was made public looks bad, just as Mr. Stanton said. However, I'm not going to think about it." As long as it had gone thus far without any outsider giving away the secret to Joe, his chum began to feel that there was little danger.

"Well, you haven't any more infernal machines; have you, boys?" the hotel clerk asked them when they came in to get their keys. "Because, if you have, just keep quiet about 'em. I don't want to be awakened in the middle of the night with some one from the bureau of combustibles coming down here," and he laughed.

"No, we're all out of dynamite," responded Blake, in the same spirit.

He and Joe were early at the office of the sailing master, who made a specialty of fitting out vessels with crews. With a rather trembling voice Joe asked for information about Mr. Duncan.

"Duncan—Duncan," mused the agent, as he looked over his books. "Seems to me I remember the name. Was he the Duncan from somewhere down the coast?"

"The Rockypoint light," supplied Joe.

"Oh, yes, now I know. But why are you asking?" and the agent turned a rather suspicious look on Joe. "Is there anything wrong—is Mr. Duncan wanted for anything? I always try to protect my clients, you know, and I must find out why you are asking. Has he committed any crime, or is he wanted by anyone?"

Blake started at the coincidence of the words.

"Yes," answered Joe; "he is wanted by me—I'm his son, and I'd like very much to find him. We found some of his letters, and there was one from you about a berth you might have vacant."

"That's right, my boy, and I'm glad to learn that is why you want Nate Duncan, for he and I are friends in a way."

"But has he shipped?" asked Joe, eagerly.

"He has," answered the agent. "He signed for a trip to China, and it will be a good while before he gets back here, I'm afraid. It's a long voyage."

"To China!" cried Joe. "Oh, if he had only received my letter he would be here now with me. Poor Dad!"



CHAPTER XIII

A MIMIC FIRE

"Sorry I can't do any more for you," went on the agent, after a pause, during which he gazed sympathetically at Joe. "I can give you the name of the vessel your father is on, and you can write to Hong Kong, but it will be some time before she arrives. She's a sailing ship, you know, one of the few left in the trade."

"I didn't know my father was a regular sailor," said Joe.

"You didn't know he was a sailor? Say, don't you know your father's business?"

"It's been a good many years since I've seen him," spoke Joe. "In fact, I can't remember him," and he told something of how he came to be on the strange quest.

"Well, this is certainly odd," remarked the agent. "I've known Nate some years, more or less, and I've often heard him speak of a son he had lost track of. Of late he had given up hope."

"And just when I was on the verge of finding him," added Joe.

"His daughter, too," continued the agent. "He said he felt sure he'd never locate her, though he'd spent lots of money in hunting. And he felt pretty bad, too, over the thought that he might never see his children again."

"And have I really a sister?" asked Joe, eagerly.

"I can't rightly say," spoke the shipping master. "You had one, but whether she's alive now or not no one seems to know. There's one satisfaction, though, you can find your father in time, and as soon as he hears from you, when his ship reaches Hong Kong, he won't lose any time taking the fastest steamer back. I know Nate Duncan well enough for that."

"Will he, though?" thought Blake. "Will he come back when he knows of the wrecking charge that may be made against him? Even the prospect of seeing Joe may not overbalance that. Yet, I suppose he could send for Joe. They couldn't make any charge against him over in China. But it's a bad business."

Joe talked a little longer with the agent, who gave him the name of the ship on which Mr. Duncan had sailed, and also directions how to address the letter.

"Well, there's no use staying in 'Frisco much longer," said Joe, as they finished their business. "We'll get what other moving pictures of street scenes we want, and as I can't find Dad here, we'll leave. We'll get back to San Diego, and out to the beach colony to film some more dramas."

A return trip to their hotel, a visit to various localities for films, then to pack their belongings—and the automatic camera did not take them long—and they were soon journeying down the coast again. They were welcomed warmly by the members of the theatrical colony.

As I have said, for the purpose of being unhampered in their work of taking films, Mr. Ringold had moved his company from San Diego proper to a small fishing settlement, directly on the beach. This place was called Chester, after the man who owned the fishery there. He had a fleet, consisting of several motor boats, in which the fishermen went out twice each day to pull up the nets that were fast to long poles, sunk into the sand of the ocean bed in water about forty feet deep.

The fish were brought to the main building, and packed in ice for transportation. Numbers of local dealers called each day with wagons to get a load to peddle about. There were only a few houses in the place, and a store or two.

Once some millionaire had built an elaborate cottage on the beach, but gave it up for some whim. It was in this cottage, which in size was almost a mansion, that the moving picture boys and their friends had their abode. A boarding mistress was installed, and thus the actors and actresses lived right at the scene of their work, with almost as much comfort as they would have had in a hotel. The place was not far from San Diego, and it had the advantage of a heavy surf on the beach, the big waves making just the background Mr. Ringold wanted. Of course, not all the scenes were on the water-front, some taking place in front of, or within, some of the cottages, which were hired for the short time needed. The fishermen could not seem to understand why a man should pay them good money for the use of their humble dwellings for a short time.

"It just seems plumb foolishness," declared one grizzled salt. "I don't see why folks want to make so many pictures of men and women walkin' in and out of my cottage and sayin' such outlandish things like: 'Gal, you shall give me them papers!' or, 'Meet me on yonder cliff at midnight!' I give up!"

"It does seem out of reason, Pete," agreed another. "But as long as they pay me for it, and don't go to bustin' up things, I'm willin'."

"Oh, so'm I. Keep it up, I says," and Mr. Ringold did, using different cottages in turn to get a diversity of views.

Sympathy was expressed for Joe on the failure of his mission to find his father.

"But don't you give up!" exclaimed Mr. Hadley. "China is far off, but it isn't out of the world. Don't give up, Joe."

"I'll not. I'm going to write to him to-day," and he did, dispatching the letter to far-off Hong Kong.

There was plenty of work waiting for the boys, some new manuscripts of sea dramas having come in. Mr. Ringold decided to film several of them, and rehearsals were already under way.

"I'm going to have a novelty in one of the plays," said the manager. "It's going to be a fire scene. We'll buy one of these cottages, or else have one built that will do well enough for picture purposes, and set it ablaze. Then, when C. C. comes running out, carrying Miss Shay—or maybe Miss Lee, for she's lighter—we'll——"

"Hold on there!" called the comedian. "Did I understand you to say I had to rush out of a burning building?"

"That's it, C. C."

"But to rush out I've got to go in; haven't I?"

"Why, naturally, C. C."

"Then I serve notice here and now that I resign. I'm tired of being an actor. I'm going into the coal business," and he stopped making odd faces in the glass, practicing some facial contortions for a new clown act, and began to dress as though to go out.

"Hold on, C. C.; what's the matter?" asked Mr. Ringold.

"Plenty! If you think I'm going to run the risk of being burned to death you've got another guess coming. I'm through."

"Why, C. C.," spoke the theatrical manager, with a laugh; "there's no danger."

"Not in going into a burning building, even if it is only a fisherman's shanty! No danger!"

"No. Listen. You go in before the building is afire. The blaze is started from the outside by your enemy, and with some red fire, which makes a lot of smoke, we can show on the screen some pictures that will look like a real fire. Then out you rush, before the flames have had a chance to spread, and after you and the lady are safe, the fire gains great headway, and the cottage burns to the ground. But the pictures are being taken all the while, and it will show up great! There's not a bit of danger."

"Not that way," said Miss Lee. "I'm willing to do my part, Mr. Ringold."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to also," spoke C. C., with a sigh. "But I know something will happen. Some sparks will fall on me and scorch me, anyhow, I'm sure."

"Oh, Gloomy!" reproachfully exclaimed Miss Shay. "Do look on the bright side for once."

"There isn't any," asserted the comedian, as he resumed his practice of making strange faces.

Mr. Ringold succeeded in purchasing, for a moderate sum, one of the older cottages, and it was put in shape for its share in the moving picture story, some changes being necessary. The fisherman and his family moved out, glad of the chance to better themselves.

"We won't say anything about planning to fire the shack," declared Mr. Ringold to the boys and the members of his company. "If we do it will attract a crowd, and that's just what we don't want. The fewer the better. Now we'll go over to the shack, and have a rehearsal."

"A dress one?" asked Mr. Piper, meaning that everything would be done just as if the pictures were being taken. "You're not going to have the real fire now; are you?"

"No, indeed," said the manager. "We can only burn the cottage down once."

The rehearsal went off well, and Blake and Joe, who were to make the films, watched the work with interest. They were anxious for the time to come to set the fire.

"Well, I guess that will do," decided Mr. Ringold, after a day or two spent in getting the actors and actresses familiar with their parts. "We'll do the business to-morrow morning."

Accordingly, they all assembled at the shack, and went through the various acts leading up to the fire scene. The boys ground away industriously at the handles of the moving picture cameras.

All went well until it came time to set the fire. Then, whether the building was older and more tinder-like than was supposed, or whether Mr. Levinberg, the "villain" who fired the shack, used too much red fire and kerosene, was not explained.

At any rate, the little building was more quickly wrapped in flame and smoke than was expected, and Mr. Ringold yelled excitedly:

"Come on out, C. C.! Don't wait any longer. Never mind if it isn't time! Rush out with the girl before it's too late!"

"That's what I'll do!" cried the comedian, appearing in the doorway, carrying Miss Lee. There was little danger now, as long as he was in the open, unless some tongue of fire should catch the girl's dress.

"Hurry!" cried the manager, and C. C. sprinted out of the reach of the fire.

And then something entirely unexpected, and not down on the bill, happened. A number of fishermen, who had seen the blaze from down the beach, came running up, all excited, thinking the fire was an accident.

"Get that old pumping engine!" shouted one grizzled salt. "We'll have that blaze out in no time!"

"Form a bucket brigade!" suggested another.

"No! No! Let it burn!" cried Mr. Ringold. "We want it to burn!"

"Want it to burn?" was shouted at him, by the fisherman who had proposed the pump. "Be you plumb crazy? Come on, boys, form that bucket brigade. Some of you run that hand-pump over here where we can pour water in the tank. Stretch the hose!"

"They'll spoil the picture!" cried Mr. Ringold, rushing about, and trying to keep the fishermen away.

Joe and Blake, not having orders to the contrary, and not knowing but what this was all part of the play, continued to grind away at their cameras, two reels of this play being taken, as an additional one was needed.

"Here she comes!" cried the fisherman, as some of his companions came rushing from a shed with an ancient style of hand fire-engine, consisting of a tank, on wheels, with a force-pump arrangement, worked by long handles. Water was poured in the tank by means of buckets, and forced out on the blaze through a hose.

"Bring her up as clost as ye kin!" directed the self-appointed chief of the amateur fire department; "'cause our hose ain't very long. Form lines now, and dip water up from the ocean. Salt water is good for fires!"



CHAPTER XIV

ATTACKED BY A SWORDFISH

"Don't do it!" cried Mr. Ringold. "Let that fire burn!"

But there were now so many fishermen rushing about here and there that they paid no attention to the excited theatrical man, who issued orders right and left.

"What shall we do?" demanded C. C., who had gotten off to one side with the girl he was supposed to have "rescued" from the burning cabin.

"I don't know!" cried Mr. Ringold. "The whole play is spoiled by those fellows butting in. Hi, there!" he called to Blake and Joe, as he saw them operating the cameras. "Stop the reel! We don't want any of this!"

The clicking machines grew silent, and then the boys knew that something was wrong.

Meanwhile, the hand engine was placed in position. It was learned, later, that the fish concern kept it for use in cases of emergency. There had been some small blazes, in which the old engine had proved its worth.

The fishermen knew how to operate it to advantage, too, and soon a double line of them, extending from the surf to the tank, began passing the filled buckets up one side and the empty ones down the other. As the tank filled, other men worked the handles and a stream of water was soon spurting on the fire.

"Quit it! Oh, quit it!" begged Mr. Ringold. "I want that shack to burn!"

"He's crazy—don't mind him!" shouted the self-appointed chief. "We'll soon have it out now."

"I'll see if I can stop them," said C. C., for the water had about quenched the blaze, and it was useless to try to go on with the play. "They'll listen to me," the comedian declared.

He rushed forward, but at that moment the hose got from the control of the two men holding it. The nozzle swung around, and the stream came full force over Christopher Cutler Piper, drenching him in an instant.

"I say there—hold on—shut that water off! I—I'm being drowned!" he spluttered. And then, as the men again got the nozzle under control, the comedian, dripping water at every point, walked away, saying:

"There, I told you something would happen!"

"I should say it has!" declared Mr. Ringold, for once agreeing with the gloomy actor.

A few more strokes of the pump handles, a few more gallons of water, and the fire, which had quickly attacked all parts of the cottage at once, died out.

"There!" cried Abe Haskill, the old fisherman-chief. "We saved your building for ye, Mr. Ringold. Ain't no use in buyin' a shack an' then havin' it burn down—no matter if it ain't wuth much. We saved her for you, though at one time it looked pretty dubious. This is the first fire we've had in some time, an' I reckon we got a bit rusty.

"I might add," he went on, "that it's customary, in cases where a volunteer department saves a buildin' from destruction—it's customary, I say, for the owner to donate a leetle suthin' to the department. In this case, seein' as how Jim Belton sold his shack to you—why, you're the owner. And, as I say, we saved her for you!" he concluded, proudly.

"Yes, I see you did," remarked Mr. Ringold, dubiously. "Now I've got to buy another, and burn that down, for this play is spoiled."

"What! Did you want her to burn?" asked Mr. Haskill, in accents of horror. "Did you want the devourin' element to consume that buildin'?"

"I did," replied the theatrical man.

"Well—I vum!" declared the volunteer chief. "Boys, we made a mistake."

"The next time I'll tell the inhabitants here what my plans are," went on Mr. Ringold, grimly. "I told you I wanted it to burn."

"I know you did," admitted the chief; "but I thought you was so excited you didn't know what you was sayin'."

"So did I," admitted several of the volunteer fire-fighters. "It's too bad!"

"Well, you meant all right, anyhow," went on Mr. Ringold, with cheerful philosophy; "and I'll make the department a donation. But next time, please don't interfere. I'll set another shack on fire as soon as I can arrange to buy one," he said to his company. "Meanwhile we'll go on with another drama. Save whatever you can of the films," he added to Blake and Joe. "Up to the time the firemen broke in they'll be all right. Next time I'll be more explicit."

"I knew something would happen," declared C. C., gloomily, as he tried to wring some of the water from his clothes. "I didn't burn, but I nearly drowned."

There was nothing to do but return to their boarding place and arrange for another drama, rehearsals for which would take place in a day or so.

"Meanwhile," said Mr. Ringold to Joe and Blake, "you may have a little time off. I tell you what you might do. We could use a fishing scene, I believe. Suppose you go out in one of the small boats here and get a series of views when they lift their nets."

"The very thing!" cried Blake. "We'll do it; eh, Joe?"

"Sure thing!"

"You might, in fact," went on Mr. Ringold, "show the whole process of fishing, from the launching of the boats until they come back filled with the day's catch."

This the boys arranged to do, and that noon, when the power boats were launched, they were on hand to make moving pictures.

The craft, as I have explained, were "eased down" the sloping beach, by means of rollers and planks, until the stern was just at the edge of the surf. The motor was then started, the boat being still held fast by a rope. This rope was fastened in a peculiar knot, so that one man, standing near it, could loosen it with one pull when the word was given to "cut loose."

The men watched the rollers with practiced eyes, for if the surf was heavy the boat might get into the trough, on being launched, and capsize. Often fishermen are drowned in this way, being struck by the heavy boat, or getting under it.

With the engine racing, the men got into the boat. One remained on the beach, holding the restraining rope. Another took his place at the stern, with a long steering oar that was to be used to get her bow on to the waves.

A particularly large wave was seen coming in.

"Get ready!" ordered the captain.

The man at the big oar took his place. The boat was almost afloat now.

"Cut loose!" came the order.

The man at the rope yanked the knot loose. The boat slid into the water and the next instant was being tossed about in the breakers, the man with the oar forcing her head around, aided by the powerful gasoline engine that turned the propeller. The craft came near to capsizing, but kept upright, and a little later was beyond the surf, into deep water, speeding out to the nets two miles away.

Blake and Joe, working by turns, got some fine views of the launching. Then, getting into another of the fishing boats with their cameras, and with Macaroni to aid them, they prepared to go out to the fishing grounds, where the nets were.

"Say, this is rough, all right!" exclaimed Blake, as they found themselves in the boiling, frothing surf.

"That's what!" agreed Joe.

"Let me out! I want to walk!" pleaded Macaroni, who was not very fond of the water.

"You'll be all right in a minute!" called Abe Haskill, who was captain of the boat. "Soon as you git out beyond the breakers you won't mind it."

And they found that they did not, though there was some motion, as there was quite a swell on. They reached the nets safely, and while the meshes were hauled up, bringing a good catch of fish, the moving picture boys took many views. It was interesting as well as instructive.

"This would make a good educational reel," suggested Blake, as he spread his legs to maintain his balance against the rocking motion of the boat.

"Indeed it would," observed Joe. "Look, there's some one overboard!" and he pointed to one of the other boats.

A man had indeed slipped into the sea. The moving picture boys were ready, however, and trained one of the cameras on the fisherman, who, laughing at his mishap, soon swam to the boat again, and was pulled in.

It took some little time to haul the nets, but at last, with their own boat well filled with flapping fish, as were the others, Joe and Blake started for shore.

"Well, we made out all right, I think," said Blake, as he looked to see if there was any more film left in his machine.

"Sure we did," declared his chum. "If we had to take some other views we could."

"We'll want some of the landing of the boats, and the carting of the fish up to the sheds," Blake reminded him.

"That's right, we will. I guess I can——"

Joe did not finish his sentence. At that moment there came a jar and Blake cried:

"We've hit something!"

"No, something has hit us!" corrected one of the fishermen, leaping up, and grabbing a long, iron-shod pole.

"What is it?" demanded Joe.

"A pesky swordfish. He's ramming us, and he may poke a hole in us! If I can get a chance I'll jab him!" and the man leaned over the side. As he did so there came another attack on the craft, so fierce that it heeled over, and the man with the pole, giving a cry, was flung overboard.



CHAPTER XV

SUSPICIOUS ACTIONS

"Man overboard!" cried several of the fishermen.

"Yes, and with a pesky swordfish too close for comfort!" added Abe Haskill. "Stop that motor, Bunker; we'll have to pick him up."

The fisherman who was called to, pulled out the switch, thus stopping the motor, and the boat drifted about on the slowly rising and falling billows.

"Can you see him?" asked the captain of the man who acted as mate.

"Yes, he's right astern, but that fish——"

"Is he coming after Jake?"

"Full tilt!"

"Grab that prod, one of you!" yelled the captain. "See if you can harpoon him with it. I'll git out the duck gun, though land knows it ain't much use against a pesky swordfish!"

One of the fishermen picked up the iron-shod pole the unfortunate man had dropped as he went overboard, and stood ready to cast it at the big fish, which could be seen swirling along in the water, near the swimmer.

"Say!" cried Blake to Joe. "It may seem a heartless thing to do, but why can't we get some moving pictures of this?"

"We can," decided his chum. "We can't help any, and we might as well film it."

"Come on, then. You hold the camera steady and I'll turn the handle."

They had a machine all in readiness, its tripod shortened so that the lens could be brought close to the water.

"He's dived!" cried one of the men.

"Who—the fish, or Jake?" demanded the captain.

"Jake. He saw the fish coming at him, and he went under. Lucky he did, or he might have been cut in two."

"Throw that prod; can't you? I'll have this gun ready in a minute."

The captain had pulled from a locker an old-fashioned, double-barreled duck gun.

"It's loaded with slugs," he called to the boys, who were even now taking moving pictures of the strange scene. "I carry it for sharks, but it'll do as well against a swordfish, though they don't commonly attack men."

"Here goes for a cast!" cried the man with the prod, which was a sort of boathook without the hook. "I'll see if I can spear him!"

Leaning forward he threw the weapon with all his force. The other fishermen, some of whom had grasped the spare oars to swing the boat around, looked eagerly to see the result.

"Missed, by ginger!" exclaimed the captain. "Here, let me try. Where's Jake?"

"Out there. He's swimming strong," was the answer. "The pesky fish is coming back at him again."

"Duck, Jake, duck!" cried the captain, as he got ready with the gun. "I'm going to shoot. Get down out of the way, and hold your breath. We'll have you in another minute!"

He could see the swordfish plainly now, rushing directly toward the swimmer. The man heard and followed directions. Deep down he dived, and the fish shot directly over him.

"Say, that's a great picture!" cried Blake.

"That's what!" yelled Joe, and then his voice was drowned in the report of the gun, which was doubly charged.

"I got him! By cracky, I got him!" cried the captain. "That's his blood showing."

The waves were indeed red with the blood of the big fish, and a moment later its body was floating on the swells.

"There's Jake!" cried one of the fishermen.

"All right!" was the response. "Throw him a line. He's in no danger now."

A few moments later the man was safe aboard, minus his boots, which he had kicked off in the sea, and some of his heavier clothing.

"That's the end of Mr. Swordfish," murmured the captain, in gratified tones, as he watched the lifeless body sink. "The sharks will get him. Are you all right, Jake?"

"Sure. It was hard work, though; and once I thought he had me. I dived just in time."

"That's what you did," said Blake. "It was a great exhibition, and when it's thrown on the screen it will make a sensation, I'm sure."

"Say, you don't mean to tell me you snapped what happened?" asked the fisherman, in surprise.

"We sure did," declared Joe. "We got every move."

"Plucky lads," murmured the captain; "and right on the job, too. Start the motor," he added to the man in charge of it.

"We've sprung a leak, captain!" exclaimed a man up in the bow. "Water's coming in."

"It's where that pesky swordfish rammed us, I reckon. But stuff something in and it will hold until we get to shore. We haven't far to go."

The boat was soon under way again, and offers of aid from sister craft that circled around were declined. A bundle of rags served to stop the inrush of most of the water, and a little later the craft, with its load of fish, was hauled up on the beach by means of a tackle and fall, horses being the motive power. Joe and Blake got pictures of the other boats making a similar landing, theirs being the first in.

"Well, we got some fine views," said Blake, as he and his chum started for their boarding place.

"We sure did, and something unexpected, too. I never counted on a swordfish attack."

"No, and I guess the fishermen didn't either. But it will make a realistic film, as Mr. Hadley would say."

"It's just our hoodoo luck again," went on Joe. "Something out of the ordinary seems to be happening all the while to us."

"Well, it's better than monotony."

"I suppose so. But I wonder what it will be next?"

The boys were congratulated on their success by Mr. Hadley and Mr. Ringold, and the films, when developed and printed a little later, furnished a series of fine views.

For the next week the boys had little time to themselves. The drama with the burning shack was enacted over again, this time with success, the volunteer firemen not throwing any water on the blaze. Other sea dramas were also made, and then came a period of rest, in which Blake and Joe had hardly anything to do.

"Say," exclaimed Blake, one afternoon, "let's go for a walk down the beach, by the cliffs. It's a fine day and it will do us good."

"All right," agreed Joe. "I was thinking of paying another visit to the lighthouse, and asking if there was any news of my father; but, of course, there can't be."

"Hardly," agreed Blake, thinking that the only news his chum would get there would be bad.

They strolled along the shore, making excursions here and there as something attracted them. Going through a little group of scrub oak, somewhat back from the shore, and climbing a slight elevation to get a view of the Pacific, the boys were startled, as they were about to emerge into a little open glade, to hear voices.

"Some one else besides us out here to-day," spoke Joe, in a low voice.

"That's right," agreed his chum. "Keep still until we see who it is."

Cautiously they advanced until they stood behind a little screen of trees, and were gazing into the open place. They saw several men at work erecting some sort of tower, or pile of rocks, and on top of it was mounted a large lantern.

"There—that ought to show pretty well," remarked one of the men.

"Yes, and be seen a good distance out to sea," put in another. "It's just in the right place, too; for the rocks extend a good way out, and you can't see 'em even at dead low water."

"And anything drawing more than ten feet will be sure to strike on 'em," suggested a third.

"That's right, Sandy," came the retort. "Have you got the lantern fixed so that she'll flash like the other?"

"I sure have. All we've got to do is to pull one wire—this way—and the light is shut off. Another pull, and she gives a flash, just like a revolving light."

"Good. We'll give it a trial to-night."

"Say, what do you think they are?" whispered Joe.

"I hardly know, and yet——"

"Maybe they're experimenting with a new kind of light?" suggested the other lad.

"Experimenting? Yes!" spoke Blake, in a low, tense voice. "And I can guess what they're experimenting for."

"What?"

Blake was about to answer, when one of the men, looking in the direction where the boys were concealed, uttered an exclamation.

"Hark!" he cried. "I think I heard something."

"It was the wind," declared one.

"A bird in the bushes," said another.

"I'm going to see!" declared the man. And he came straight toward their hiding place.



CHAPTER XVI

JOE SUSPECTS SOMETHING

"What'll we do, Blake?" was the whispered question.

"Stay here, I guess. If we run they'll see us or hear us. Besides, we haven't done anything to run for."

"I know it, but those men look like ugly customers. I wonder what they can be up to?"

"They are—" began Blake, and then he pulled Joe down beside him in the bushes.

"He's turned off to one side," Blake went on. "He hasn't seen us, and he doesn't know just where to look. He may pass us by. Keep still!"

Together they crouched down. The man looked around as though to trace the noise which had been made when Joe accidentally stepped on a stick, which broke under his weight.

"Don't breathe," whispered Blake, with his lips close to Joe's ear. "I think he's going to pass us by."

The man paused, seemed as if about to come directly for them again, and then dashed off to one side. He made a leap into the bushes, only to discover nothing, as his chagrined exclamation showed.

"I told you so!" growled one of his companions. "It was only the wind."

"The wind doesn't break sticks," was the snappish reply.

"Then it was a bird—maybe a fishhawk."

"Maybe," assented the man who had started to make the search. "But I thought some one was spying on us, and if they were——" He did not finish, but glared angrily around. He was so close to the boys that they could hear his rapid breathing, but the leafy screen effectively hid them from view. "If I catch any one," he went on, "he'll wish he never ran across Hemp Danforth!" and he shook a big fist.

"Oh, come on!" called some of his companions. "There's lots to be done yet before we get this lantern finished. And if we want any rich pickings we'll have to hustle for 'em. The weather looks like it was going to break, and that will be just what we want. Come on, Hemp."

"All right, I will, only don't talk so bold and free."

"Why not?"

"Because some one might be spying and listening to us."

"He's got that on his mind yet," laughed one of the men. "There's no one around here."

"And if they were, what could they pick up?" demanded another.

"That's all right—it's best to be careful," said the one called Hemp Danforth. "I'm taking no chances. Some of us might—well, no telling what might happen to us if we was to be found out."

"Don't talk that way," spoke a tall, thin man. "It isn't altogether cheerful—especially with what work we have on hand. Come on, now; let's make this pillar a little higher, and the light will show better."

"Say, what do you imagine they are doing?" whispered Joe. "It's a queer game, Blake."

"It sure is. I've about made up my mind what they are up to, and yet I may be wrong. Let's wait here a while longer, and maybe we can pick up some information that will give us a better clue."

The men were now engaged in heaping more stones on the pile where the lantern had set, and were making so much noise at it that the whispering of the boys could not be heard.

"Any special vessels in view?" asked one of the men, after they had worked away for some time in silence.

"No, but there'll sure be one along before long. We can count on that. Of course, we'll have to keep the light going several nights, maybe, but it'll be worth while."

"It ought to fool 'em, all right," went on Hemp Danforth. "If it hadn't been that Nate Duncan tripped us up, and didn't come across with that information we wanted, we wouldn't have all this trouble."

For a moment Joe seemed to stiffen as he heard the name, and then, in a hoarse whisper, he turned to Blake and said:

"Did you hear that? These men know my father. They used his name."

"Yes, but keep quiet!" urged Blake, for Joe had raised his voice. "We don't want them to know we're here."

"But they know my father, Blake," went on Joe, using more caution, however, in his tones. "I must speak to them. Maybe they were associated with him in lighthouse work, and this may be some new patent lantern they're trying. Maybe my father hasn't gone to China at all, and these men can tell where he is."

Joe made a move as though to leave the screened hiding place and approach the men.

"No—don't go!" whispered Blake, hoarsely, holding his chum back. "Stay here, Joe. Don't speak to those men!"

"But they have something to do with my father."

"No matter; do as I say, please! Believe me, Joe, I can't explain now, for I promised I would not. But you'll understand—later. Don't approach those men!"

"Why not?"

"Because—well, I can't tell you!"

"Then I'm going!" declared Joe, half fiercely. "Blake, I'm sure you're keeping something from me. I've suspected it for some time, for you've looked at me in a queer fashion when I spoke of my father. Now what is it?"

"Really, Joe, it's nothing—that is——"

"Yes, it is something. If you don't tell me I'll go out there and take the consequences!"

Joe broke from Blake's restraining grasp as he whispered this, and was about to dash for the bushes, when Hemp Danforth, dashing down a stone he was raising, cried out:

"Boys, you can't fool me! There is some one here, and they're spying on us. I'll make 'em sorry for it! I hear whispering, and I've felt right along as though unseen eyes were looking at me. Now I'm going to find out who it is!"

Once more he started for the place where Blake and Joe were concealed. This time it could be seen that he would not be swerved from his quest.

"Come on, Joe. We've got to run for it!" exclaimed Blake, and, not caring now how much noise they made—being under the necessity of betraying their presence—they dashed back in the direction they had come.

"Here they are!" yelled Hemp, as he ran after them, tearing through the underbrush. "I knew we were being spied on! Come along, men!" he yelled.

Blake and Joe looked back as they got to the path that led along the cliff, below which was the rolling ocean. They had a glimpse of the big man racing after them, several others in his wake.

"Stop!" commanded Hemp Danforth. "Hold on, you spies!"

"Don't answer," advised Blake. "Save your breath for running, Joe."

"Um!" grunted his chum.

They were fleet of foot, and had a start. They were also lighter in weight than was their pursuer. In a short time they were well ahead.

"But he's still coming on!" declared Blake.

"We've got to give him the slip," declared Joe. "Can't you see some side path we can take?"

"Yes, here's one," was the panting answer, and at that moment Blake parted some low bushes and jumped into a sort of cross path, almost concealed from view. "Come on, Joe!"

His chum lost no time in following, and for a few moments, at least, they were comparatively safe.

"Now, Blake," said Joe, when they felt that they could slacken their pace to get their breath, "I want you to tell me that secret!"



CHAPTER XVII

AFTER THE WRECKERS

Blake Stewart was at a loss. He did not know what to do, and, though he had been expecting to hear this request at almost any time, he was no more prepared for it now than he would have been had it been made directly after Blake learned of Mr. Duncan's flight.

"Well?" asked Joe, suggestively, when his chum did not answer. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

"What makes you think I have a secret, Joe?" Thus Blake tried to temporize, so that he might think what was best to do.

"Oh, I'm sure you have," declared Joe, "and you might as well tell me now as any time, for I'm bound to find it out. I don't believe there's any more danger now," and he paused to look back along the almost hidden path they had followed. "I can't see anything of that man," he added. "We gave him the slip, all right.

"Now go ahead, Blake, and end my suspense. I've seen for some time that you've been keeping something back from me. I don't know what it is, but it's something about my father. And I appreciate why you're doing it. You want to spare my feelings."

"That's it!" cried Blake, eagerly, glad of any chance to put off what he regarded as a most unpleasant duty. "It is for your sake, Joe, that I have been keeping silent, and I wish you would go on letting me do so. Believe me, if I thought it well for you to know I'd tell you."

"Is it—is it that he isn't my father, after all?" faltered the lad, following a silence in which all sound of pursuit had died away. The boys felt that they were safe now. "Do you mean to say, Blake, that this man whom I've traced after such hard work, isn't any relation to me—haven't I any folks, after all?"

"No, Joe, it isn't that at all. He's your father, as far as I know, and I will admit there is some secret about him. But I'd rather not tell you."

"I want to know it," insisted Joe, firmly.

"If you'll only wait," went on his chum, "it may all be explained when—when he comes back. Then there won't be any need of a secret. Better wait, Joe."

"No, I've got to hear it right away. If it's any disgrace—and it must be, or you'd be willing to tell me—if it's any disgrace, it's my duty to stand up for my father when he isn't here. I'm his son, and I have a right to know about it, and protect his name as much as I can. Tell me, Blake."

The other hesitated a moment. If he told, it would be, he felt, breaking his promise made to the lighthouse keeper, but then the promise was not so sacred that it could not be broken. It was given under a sort of discretion, and Blake knew that he would be allowed to reveal what had been said if he felt that it was best to do so. The time now seemed to have come to do this. He took a sudden resolve.

"All right, Joe," he said, "I'll tell you. There is a secret about your father. I suppose you know what sort of men those were that we just got away from?" and he nodded in the direction of the hill down which they had raced.

"I've been puzzling my head about them, Blake," came the answer, "and all I can say is that they must be either men who are experimenting with a new kind of light, or else they are—wreckers!"

"That's it, Joe. They are wreckers, and they're plotting to lure some vessel on the rocks by means of false lights."

"The scoundrels!" burst out Joe. "We've got to spoil their wicked game."

"That's what we have. We'll tell the police, or some one in authority."

"But before we do," broke in Joe, "tell me about my father, though I begin to suspect now," and there was a look of sadness on his face.

"I presume you pretty well know what is coming," said Blake, slowly, "now you have heard what those men said. The whole amount of it is, Joe, that your father is suspected of having been in league with those wreckers—that he helped to lure vessels on these same rocks."

"My father a wrecker!" cried Joe. "It can't be—I won't believe it!"

"I didn't want to either, when I heard it," said Blake, "and maybe, now that I've told you, we can work together and find some way of proving him innocent."

"That's it!" cried the son. "Oh, if he were only here to help us! I wonder why he went away?"

"The lighthouse keeper said," began Blake, "that your father left because he feared to be arrested. And the day after he went away an officer did come for him," and he proceeded to relate what Mr. Stanton had said.

"I don't believe it!" cried Joe, when the account was finished. "Of course, I don't remember my father, and, naturally, I don't know what sort of a man he was, but I don't believe he was a wrecker!"

"And I don't either!" added Blake. "Here's my hand on it, Joe, and we'll do our best to find out the truth of this thing," and the two chums clasped hands warmly.

"But it's mighty strange what those men said about him," went on Joe. "To think that we would stumble on the wreckers right at work. We can lead the police to the very place where they have set up their false light."

"Maybe we can do better than that, Joe."

"How?"

"Why, we may be able to help the police catch these same fellows."

"That's so. Have you a plan, Blake?" asked his chum, eagerly, as they walked on along the path.

"Not yet, but we'll make one up. But, Joe, did you notice just what it was that big wrecker said?"

"Not exactly; I was too excited when I heard them mention my father's name."

"Well, they as much as said that your father had refused to give them the information they wanted, and this spoiled their scheme. That might go to show that they made offers to him to have him help them in their wicked plans, and he refused. That made them turn against him, and——"

"I see, Blake! You mean that, maybe, after all, he left because he was afraid of the wreckers, and not because he had done anything wrong?"

"That's it, Joe. Of course, it's all guess work on our part, so far, and I think the best thing we can do is to go to the lighthouse and tell Mr. Stanton all we've seen and heard. He may be able to advise us, even if he is an old man. At any rate, he'll know what police or government officers to go to, so we can catch these wreckers."

"That's right, Blake. Come on. I guess we can go down on the beach now. Those fellows won't venture out into the open after us, I don't believe."

"No, they seem to have given up the chase," replied Blake, and the two lads were soon down on the shore.

A look around showed no signs of the supposed wreckers, and a little later the two lads were in the lighthouse telling their story to the wondering and amazed keeper.

"So that's how the scoundrels are planning to work; are they?" cried the old man. "Going to duplicate my light, and fool the poor sailors! But we'll put a spoke in their wheel, boys. We'll spike their guns for 'em, and have 'em behind the bars, if there's any law in this land.

"Putting up a false light right opposite those rocks—the most dangerous on the coast! No punishment would be too bad for 'em. Did you happen to hear, boys, when they expected to play that wicked game?"

"They didn't mention any special night," replied Blake; "it seemed that they counted on getting some information which failed them—Joe's father," he added, thinking it well to let Mr. Stanton know that Joe had been informed of the secret.

"Joe's father; eh?" said the old man, musingly. "Boy, I'm mighty sorry for you," he said, softly; "for I know the disgrace is trying, and if it had been possible to keep this from you——"

"I'm glad I know!" burst out Joe. "There isn't going to be any disgrace. My father is innocent, I'm sure of it; and I believe we can prove it, once we have these wreckers arrested."

"That's the way to talk!" cried the old man. "Boys, I'll help you. We'll get right after these miscreants. Maybe I was wrong, after all, in thinking Nate Duncan guilty. He was a good man, and it made me feel bad even to suspect him."

"What do you think is the best thing to do?" asked Blake. "We ought to act quickly, or they may leave this part of the country, to try their scheme farther down the coast. It might succeed, then."

"That's right," declared Mr. Stanton. "We must act at once. My assistant is here now, and I'll have him go with you. I'm a little too old for such work. Besides, one of us will have to stay here to guard the light. No telling but what the scoundrels might try to wreck it. But if they come, I'll be ready for 'em!" he cried, as he took down an old-fashioned musket from the wall. "I'll stand by to repel boarders!" he exclaimed, holding the weapon above his head, and then sighting it at an imaginary enemy.

"I'll call my assistant," he went on. "Tom Cardiff is as sturdy a lad as you'd wish to see. He can get one of the men from the life saving station, and with a couple of the government secret service officers you ought to be able to get those wreckers, don't you think?"

"Sure!" cried Joe.

"Did you mean for us to help catch 'em?" asked Blake.

"I certainly did," went on the keeper. "That is, unless you're——"

"Afraid? Not a bit of it!" cried Blake, vigorously.

"Besides, you know just where they were located," continued Mr. Stanton.

"Though they may have taken the alarm and left," suggested Joe.

"Then we'll trace 'em!" cried his chum. "Where is your helper, Mr. Stanton?"

"I'll call him. I say Tom—Tom Cardiff!" he shouted up the lantern tower. "I'll finish cleaning the lens. I've got other work for you. Come down!"

"Coming!" was the answer, and a little later a well built young fellow, muscular and of fine appearance, greeted the boys. The introduction was soon made, and the story of the lads told.

"Wreckers; eh?" exclaimed Tom Cardiff. "I'd just like to get hold of some of the wretches," and he stretched out his vigorous arms.

"Well, get after 'em, then!" exclaimed the old man. "You don't want to lose any time. Telephone for the officers."

The wire was soon busy, and arrangements made for the secret service men to come to the lighthouse. One of the life saving squad, from a station a little farther down the coast, was also engaged.

"Now you boys had better go back to your place," said Mr. Stanton; "and arrange to come back to-night. That's the only time to get after these fellows. They probably have finished their work, from what you told me, and they'll lay low until it's dark. Then we'll get after 'em!"



CHAPTER XVIII

FAILURE

"Boys, if you could only get moving pictures of the capture of the wreckers!"

Thus exclaimed Mr. Ringold when his two young employees told of the plans afoot and asked to be excused from work a little longer.

"It would be great," admitted Joe.

"But we'd need a powerful light," said Blake, "and if we had that it would warn the men we're after."

"That's so," spoke the theatrical man. "I guess it's out of the question. But you have done such wonderful work so far, that I'd like you to keep it up. A film of the capture of wreckers would make an audience sit up and take notice."

"I guess I'll have to invent some sort of a light that would make it possible," put in Mr. Hadley; "but I'm afraid I can't have it ready to-night."

"Then you don't mind if we go?" asked Blake.

"No, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Ringold, "and I wish you all success."

"It's going to be a dark night," remarked Blake, a little later, as he and Joe were on their way to the lighthouse. It was early evening, but the sky was clouding over and a wind was coming up that sent the big billows bounding up on the sand with a booming noise like the discharge of distant cannon.

"Yes, we'll have to sort of feel our way along," said Joe. "But I guess we can find the place, all right."

"I hope so. But I wonder if the men will come back after the alarm we gave 'em?"

"That's hard to tell, Blake. And yet they might; for, though they saw us, they may think we were only a couple of lads out for a stroll, who accidentally stumbled on their hiding place. In that case they wouldn't think we'd give any alarm, and they'd go on with their plans."

"That's so. Well, we'll see what happens. I hope there aren't too many of them, so that our men can handle them."

"That Tom Cardiff can get away with a couple on his own account, and with the life saver, and the secret service men, not to mention ourselves, Blake, I guess we'll make out all right."

"I reckon you and I together, Joe, can account for at least one," and Blake looked quizzically at his chum.

"I feel almost as if I could handle one alone, when I think of how they got my father into trouble," replied the other. "I'm going to give a good account of myself, if I get the chance."

"Same here. Well, there's the lighthouse just ahead, and two or three men waiting for us. I guess they're the ones we are to go with."

This proved to be the case, and a little later the boys were repeating to the life saver, and two secret service men, such parts of their story as Mr. Stanton and Tom Cardiff had omitted or forgotten.

"Well, if we're all ready, we may as well start," proposed Sam Wilton, one of the government agents. The other was Jerry Boundley, while the name of the life saver was Frank Hale.

"Yes, it's quite a tramp," said Tom Cardiff, "and the wreckers may be there now. Several small trading vessels are expected up the coast this week, and some may be due to-night. Though seeing that a storm is coming up, they may keep so far out from shore that they won't see the false lights, in case the wreckers try to work them.

"This is about as wicked a piece of work as could well be done, trying to wreck vessels this way. A sailor has to depend absolutely on the lights, under certain conditions, and if they're wrong, it's like leading a blind man into danger. So let's get after 'em and stop their work!"

The men well knew the way nearly to the place where the boys had discovered the wreckers at work, and so they would not have to rely on Joe and Blake to guide them until they were almost there.

"When you see that you are close to the place," said Tom Cardiff, "you boys go ahead, and we'll trail along after you. And keep mighty quiet, too. If we can catch these fellows actually in the act of showing a false light, so much better for the chances of convicting them."

They went on in the darkness. Back of them, as they mounted the hill which ended in the high cliff, could be seen the flashing light tended by aged Mr. Stanton.

"He's right on the job," remarked Tom Cardiff. "Even if he's an old man he'll stay up all night to attend to that light, to see that it's trimmed properly, that the machinery is working, that there's oil in the reservoir, and that the lenses are clean. That light is just like a son or daughter to him. He can't bear to have anything happen to it and the very idea of any scoundrels trying to wreck vessels by means of a false beacon riles him up considerable."

"I should think it would," agreed Mr. Wilton. "Well, if we can catch these fellows we'll put 'em where they can't do any more harm. And I hope we'll get back in time, so Mr. Stanton won't have to stay up all night."

"I hope so, too," put in Tom Cardiff. "He isn't equal to the task."

"We're getting close to the place now," said Blake, in a low voice a little later.

"Then you boys come up here," ordered Tom Cardiff, who, in a measure, was a sort of leader. "And everybody keep quiet. Don't talk, except in whispers, and make as little noise as you can."

Cautiously they advanced, the boys in the lead. The lads recognized, even in the darkness, some of the larger landmarks they had passed in their flight that afternoon.

"Hold on a minute, and listen," suggested the life saver. "Maybe we can hear them talking."

They paused, but the only sound that came was the booming of the surf on the rocks below.

"Can you see anything of a light?" asked Mr. Boundley.

"Not a thing," replied Joe, glancing all about him.

"Look up," directed Tom Cardiff. "That's the best way to locate a light that you can't see directly. You may catch its reflection on the night mist."

But the night was black all around them. Not a gleam could they make out. Once more they advanced until Joe and Blake recognized the place where they had been hiding, and whence they had looked into the open place where the wreckers had been putting up their false light.

"It's here!" whispered Blake.

"Just ahead there," added Joe.

"Get ready, men!" exclaimed Tom Cardiff, in a tense whisper. "We'll rush 'em before they know it—if they're here."

Stout clubs had been brought along in anticipation of a hand-to-hand struggle, it being decided that these weapons were best, safest and most effective at close quarters.

"All ready?" asked the leader.

"Yes—yes!" came the answers.

Blake leaned forward, cautiously parted the bushes and looked toward the open space. He had heard nothing, and seen nothing, and yet he knew that the men might be hidden about, and that the lantern might not yet be lighted.

"Come on!" cried Tom Cardiff, and together they leaped from their place of concealment.

There was a moment of silence, and then a disappointed exclamation burst from the lips of the assistant lighthouse keeper.

"They're not here!" he declared. That was evident, for there had been no response as the searchers burst out.

"Are you sure this is the place?" asked Mr. Wilton, turning to the boys.

"Positive," answered Joe.

"Here's the pile of rocks on which the lantern was set," added Blake.

"But there's no lantern here now," said Tom Cardiff.

"Then they've skipped!" declared the life saver. "They got suspicious and left, taking the lantern with 'em!"



CHAPTER XIX

ON THE TRAIL

There was no doubt about it, the wreckers were not there, and the indications were that they had betaken themselves to some other location.

When the men flashed the pocket electric lamps they had brought with them, the little opening at the top of the cliff was well illuminated.

"Nothing doing!" exclaimed Joe, regretfully.

"They must have skipped out right after they chased us," decided Blake.

"And they went in a hurry, too," declared Tom Cardiff.

"What makes you think so?" asked one of the government officers.

"Look at how this stone pile, which they intended to use as a base for their lantern, is disturbed, and pulled apart," went on the assistant lighthouse keeper, as he flashed his torch on it. "I'll wager, boys, that when you saw it, with that contrivance atop by which they hoped to fool some vessels, this stone pile was well built up; wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Blake, "it was."

"Because," went on Tom Cardiff, "it would have to be so to make their light steady, to give the impression that it was one of the regular government lights. They were going to work a shutter, you boys say, to give the impression of a revolving light, and that would make it necessary to have a firm foundation.

"And yet now the whole top of this stone pile is torn apart, showing that they must have ripped out whatever they had here to hold the lantern. They got away in a hurry, is my opinion."

"And I guess we'll all have to agree," put in the life saver. "The question is—where did they go?"

"And that's a question we've got to answer," added Tom Cardiff. "We've got to get on the trail."

"Why so?" asked the life saver. "If you've driven 'em off, so they can't try any of their dastardly tricks to lure vessels ashore, isn't that all you want? You've spoiled their game."

"Yes!" cried Tom Cardiff, "we've spoiled it for this one place, but they'll be at it somewhere else."

"What do you mean?" asked Joe.

"I mean that they've gone somewhere else!" exclaimed the assistant keeper. "They've made tracks away from here, but they've gone to some other place to set up their light, and try the same thing they were going to try here. It's our duty to keep after 'em, and break up the gang!"

"That's right!" cried Mr. Wilton. "There's no telling what damage they might do, if left alone. Why, they might even get to some place where large passenger steamers pass, and wreck one of them, though mostly they aim to pick out a spot where small cargo boats would be lured on the rocks. We've got to keep after 'em!"

"Then come on!" cried Joe. He was fired with enthusiasm, not only to capture the wreckers for the purpose of protecting human life and property, but he was also eager to have the scoundrels safe in confinement so that he might question them, and learn the source of the suspicion against his father.

"On the trail!" cried Blake. "Maybe we can easily find the wreckers."

"No, not to-night," advised Mr. Boundley. "It wouldn't be practical, in the first place; and if it was, it wouldn't be safe. We don't know this locality very well. There may be hidden dangers and pitfalls that would injure some of us. Then, too, we don't want to stumble on a nest of wreckers without knowing something of the lay of the ground."

"What's best to be done?" asked Tom Cardiff.

"Do nothing to-night," advised the government man. "To-morrow we can take up the trail, and by daylight we may be able to pick up something that will give us a clue. I think they won't try any of their tricks to-night, so it will be safe for us to go back."

The others agreed with this view, and, after looking about the place a little more, and trying, but unsuccessfully, to find clues in the darkness, partly illuminated by the electric torches, they gave it up and started back to the lighthouse.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Blake of Joe, as the two lads reached their boarding house in the little theatrical colony. It was quite late.

"Think of it?" echoed Joe. "I'm terribly disappointed, that's what. I hoped I'd be able to get a start on disproving this accusation against my father."

"Yes, it was a disappointment," agreed Blake.

"And now there's no telling when I can."

"No, not exactly; but, Joe, I have a plan."

"What is it?"

"What's the matter with getting on the trail after these fellows the first thing in the morning. No use waiting any longer, and we can't tell how prompt those government men may be. Of course they're interested, in a general way, in making the capture; but aside from that, you and I have a personal motive; for I'll admit I'm as interested as you are in proving that your father is innocent.

"So what's the matter with getting back up on the cliff as soon as we can, and seeing if we can trace those fellows. You know we've had some experience after taking films of those Indians, and can follow signs pretty well."

"I'm with you, Blake!" cried Joe. "We'll do it. I guess Mr. Ringold will let us off when he knows how important it is."

They spoke of the matter to the theatrical man early the next morning, and he readily agreed to let them continue the work of trying to capture the wreckers.

"Go ahead, boys," he said. "Mr. Hadley and your lad, Macaroni, can take what films we want to-day. And I would like to see you get those wreckers. There's no meaner criminal alive. All we'll do for the next couple of days is to get ready for our big drama—I've planned a new one—and I sure will want you boys to help film it for me."

"What's it going to be about?" asked Blake.

"It's a sea story, and a wreck figures in it."

"A real wreck?" asked Joe, in some surprise. "That will be hard to do; won't it?"

"It sure will, and I don't just know how to manage it. I could buy some old tub, and wreck it, I suppose, but I want it to look natural. While I don't wish anyone bad luck, I do wish, if a wreck had to happen, that it would come about here, so we could get moving pictures of it. But I don't suppose I'll have any such good luck.

"However, I'll have to think about this. Now you boys can have a couple of days off, if you like, and I hope you'll find those miscreants."

"I wish we could get you some moving pictures of them," spoke Blake; "but I'm afraid it's out of the question."

The boys were soon at the scene of the disappointment the night before. Daylight revealed more clearly the haste with which the wreckers had removed their false lantern. Stones were scattered about, as were bits of broken wood, wire, rope and other accessories.

"Now," said Joe, after they had looked about, "the thing to do is to trail them."

"And the first thing is to get a clue," added Blake.

They looked about, using the knowledge they had gained from being with the cowboy the time they filmed the pictures of the Moqui Indians. For some time their efforts were without success. They cast about in all directions, looking for some lead that would tell them in which direction the wreckers had gone.

"I should think they'd go farther down the coast," suggested Joe. "They certainly wouldn't come toward the lighthouse, and they wouldn't go inland, for to work their plan they need to be near the shore."

"That's right, to an extent," decided Blake; "but, at the same time, they may have wanted to give a false clue. So we mustn't let that fool us. Keep on looking."

Narrowly they scanned the ground. It was covered with marks, not only of the footsteps of the wreckers, but of the men and boys themselves who had made the unsuccessful raid the night before.

"Hello!" cried Blake, suddenly, as he dived into a clump of bushes. "Here's something!"

"What is it?" asked Joe.

"A piece of cloth, evidently torn from a man's clothing. And, Joe, now that I recall it, it's the same color as the suit worn by Hemp Danforth when he chased us. We're on the trail at last, Joe!"



CHAPTER XX

THE DISCOVERY

Joe Duncan leaped to his chum's side. Eagerly he looked at the bit of cloth which, caught on a thorn bush, had ripped from some man's garment. The cloth was not weather-beaten, which, to the boys, showed that it had not long been hanging there.

"Blake, I believe you're right," assented his chum. "They went this way, and they must have done it for a blind, or else to get to some path that goes farther down the beach a different way," for the cloth was caught on a bush toward the landward side of the little clearing.

"We'll follow this," said Blake.

"Of course," agreed his chum.

They pushed into the bushes. There was no semblance of a path, but this did not discourage the boys. They realized that the wreckers would want to cover up their trail, and would take a way that would not seem to lead anywhere.

"This will branch off pretty soon," was Blake's opinion. "This is just a blind, to make us believe they have given up, and gone inland. Come on, Joe, and keep a sharp lookout for any other signs."

They found none for some time, and then they came to a little open place where the soft ground held several footprints.

"We're getting warmer!" exclaimed Joe.

"Hush!" cautioned his chum. "They may hear us."

"Why, you don't think they're around here; do you?"

"There's no telling. It's best to be on the safe side. Keep quiet. Hello! here's something else!" and Blake, moving cautiously, so as not to make any more noise than possible, picked up a bit of metal.

"What is it?" asked Joe.

"Part of their lantern," answered his chum. "It was made of black sheet iron, you remember. This piece may have fallen off when they dragged it through the bushes. We're on the right trail, all right."

"I believe you. But I wish it would turn on to a better path. It's no fun forcing your way through these bushes."

"It'll turn soon now," predicted Blake. "They only took this lead long enough to discourage pursuit. They didn't like it any better than we do."

His surmise proved correct and about five minutes later, having found other evidences of the passage of the wreckers, they came out on an open trail.

It was a narrow path, leading along in both directions from where they came out on it, and following the coast line, but some distance inland. There were evidences that men had passed in both directions, and that at no distant time, for footprints turned to both the left and right, as the boys emerged from the blind trail in the brush.

"Well, what about this?" questioned Joe, as he looked in silence at the tell-tale marks. "Which way shall we go, Blake?"

"To the right!" came the answer, almost immediately.

"What makes you say that?" asked his chum. "I don't see anything to show that they went to the right, any more than that they went to the left."

"Don't you?" asked Blake. "Look here, and remember some of the things our cowboy guide told us when we were after the Indians. Now you see footprints going off to the left and right from this point; don't you?"

"Sure."

"Well, do you happen to notice that on the left there are footprints coming back as well as going."

"Yes, I see that. But what does it mean?"

"And on the right side, counting from this dividing point, there are only footprints in one direction."

"That's so, Blake. But——"

"Now what's the answer? Why the men got here, and, thinking they might be followed, tried a simple trick. They doubled their trail."

"What's that?"

"Why, some of them went off to the left, walked on a little way, doubled, or turned, and came back, joining the others, who had turned to the right and kept on."

"Why was that?"

"Because they wanted to fool us. Naturally a person, not looking carefully, would see both lines of footprints, and would reason that the men might have divided, or that there might have been two separate parties. He wouldn't know which trail to take. He might pick out the right one, and, again, he might select the wrong one."

"And you say the right one is——"

"To the right. We'll follow that. If they think to fool us, or make us divide our forces, they're going to be disappointed. Another thing."

"What's that, Blake?" asked Joe, as he noticed his chum leaning over and carefully examining the marks in the dirt.

"Why, naturally they wouldn't go to the left, as that eventually leads to the lighthouse. They want to keep some distance from that. Of course they'd go to the right. And here's where we go after 'em. Come on!"

There was no hesitation now. Joe was as sure as his chum that the wreckers had gone farther down the coast, perhaps to some other high cliff where they could set up their lantern.

They followed the path. The trail was plain now, showing that a number of men had passed along. Footprints were the only clues, however, a number overlapping one another.

"What shall we do if we find them?" asked Joe.

"I—I don't know," answered Blake. This was when they had been following the new trail for about an hour.

"We can't tackle 'em alone, that's sure," went on Joe.

"No, but we can—Hark! What's that?" whispered Blake, suddenly.

They listened intently. Far off they could hear the roar of the surf on the beach; but, closer at hand, was another sound. It was the clink of metal. And then came the distant murmur of men's voices.

"Joe, I think we've found them," whispered Blake. "Come on, but don't make any noise."

Cautiously they crept forward, the sounds becoming more and more plain.

Suddenly they heard a loud voice exclaim:

"There! I guess that will do the business! And those fellows won't find us here!"

"That's them!" whispered Blake in Joe's ear. "I know the voice of Hemp Danforth. We've found 'em, Joe!"



CHAPTER XXI

THE CAPTURE

Impulsively the boys clasped hands as they realized what the discovery meant. They had come upon the new hiding place of the wreckers, and the chances were good for capture if no alarm was given.

Joe, perhaps, felt more elated than did Blake, though the latter was glad that his theory in regard to the direction taken by the men had proved correct.

But Joe felt that now he had a better chance to prove his father innocent of the charge made against him—that he was involved with the wreckers.

"We've got 'em!" he whispered.

"Yes—we've got 'em—to get!" agreed Blake. "No slip-up this time."

In whispers they consulted, and decided to creep forward a short distance to make sure of their first surmise that the men, whose voices they heard, were really the wreckers.

"We want to be certain about it," warned Blake, in a cautious whisper.

"That's right," agreed his chum. "Go ahead, and I'll come after you."

Cautiously they advanced until they were in a position to look forward and make out a number of men working on a sort of mound of rock that rose from the surface of the cliff.

"This is a better place, from their standpoint, than the other," whispered Blake. "A light can be seen farther."

"Yes, and they're putting up the same lantern on a rock pile," remarked Joe. Both lads recognized the apparatus they had seen before. The men were busily engaged in setting it in place, evidently working fast to make up for lost time.

"It's the same gang," observed Blake; "and they must know of some vessel that is to pass here soon, or they wouldn't be in such a hurry. Probably they count on the steersman mistaking this light for the one at Rockypoint, and standing in close here. Up at Rockypoint there is deep water close in shore, but it shoals very fast both ways, up or down the beach. So if a vessel saw a false light, and stood close in to get her bearings, she'd be on the rocks in no time."

"That's right," agreed Joe. "She'd be wrecked and these fellows would get what they could out of her, caring nothing for the lives lost. Blake, we've got to stop 'em!"

"We sure have."

"Not only to clear my father, but to save others," went on Joe. "What's best to be done?"

"Well, we can't capture 'em by ourselves; that's sure," went on Blake, each lad speaking in a cautious whisper. "The best thing for us to do is to go back, I think, and tell Tom Cardiff. He'll know what to do."

"Maybe one of us had better stay here to keep watch. They may skip out."

"No danger. They don't know that we have followed 'em, or that we are here."

"Then we'll go back together."

"Sure, and give the alarm. Then to make the capture, if we can."

For a few minutes longer the eager boys looked on, unseen by the men whom they had trailed. The wreckers were busy putting up their lantern, and were making as much noise, talking and hammering on the apparatus, as though they were far removed from possible discovery.

"Well, we'd better be going," suggested Blake, after a bit; and they made their departure without causing any suspicious sounds, so that the wreckers had no idea, as far as our heroes could ascertain, that they were being spied upon.

In order to save time, as soon as they got to the nearest small settlement, Joe and Blake hired a carriage, and drove to the lighthouse. As may well be imagined their report caused considerable excitement.

"We'll get right after 'em!" cried Tom Cardiff. "I just got a telephone message from the secret service men that they are on their way here. They'll arrive in about an hour. We were counting on getting on the trail ourselves to-day, but you boys got ahead of us. So in about an hour we'll start. I guess they'll be there then; won't they, lads."

"I should judge so," was Blake's answer. "They've got quite a good deal yet to do to get that fake lantern in shape, and they don't seem suspicious."

"We can't have our life saving friend with us now," went on the assistant keeper, "as he is on duty, but I guess the five of us will be enough."

"Say!" cried Blake, with sudden thought, "if it's going to be an hour before we start we've got time to get our automatic moving picture camera, Joe."

"What for?"

"To get some views of this capture. It ought to make a dandy film, and we can set the machine in place, start the motor and then you and I can jump in and help catch these wreckers!"

"The very thing!" cried his chum. "I wonder I didn't think of it myself. Come on!"

"Don't be late!" advised Tom Cardiff, as they ran toward the ancient carriage they had hired. "We don't want any slip-up this time. I'm glad we're going to try for the capture by daylight, though, instead of darkness; it gives us a better chance."

Mr. Ringold and Mr. Hadley were surprised and delighted at the news the boys brought, but they voted against the automatic camera.

"This is a rare chance to get a film," said Mr. Hadley, "and we don't want to miss it. I'll go along with you, taking a regular moving picture camera, and while you capture the wreckers I'll make a film of it."

This suited the boys as well, and a little later, with the chief photographer, they started back for the lighthouse. They found the secret service men and Tom Cardiff waiting for them, and, well armed, in addition to the clubs they carried, and with ropes to bind the wreckers, they started off.

"We're almost there now," said Blake, in a whisper, when they neared the second hiding place of the desperate men. "Go easy, now."

"Let me get a chance to go ahead and place the camera," suggested Mr. Hadley, who had the apparatus fully adjusted.

"That's a great idea," declared one of the government men. "Taking their photographs in moving pictures! There'll be no chance for them to deny they were present when they were captured," and he chuckled grimly.

Mr. Hadley was given an opportunity to move forward alone. He found an advantageous spot and almost at once beckoned to the others to hasten.

"They're getting ready to leave!" he whispered, as they reached his side.

"Come on, then!" cried Tom Cardiff. "Jump in on 'em, boys. Lively now!"

As he spoke he leaped forward, followed by the others.

"Surrender! We've got you surrounded!" yelled the assistant keeper. "It's all over but the shouting!" and as he made a grab for one of the men the moving picture machine began clicking.

"Hands up!" ordered Mr. Wilton.

"At 'em, boys!" called the other government man, as he and Blake and Joe leaped to the attack together.

For a moment the wreckers stood as if paralyzed about the stone pedestal on which the false lantern was being built. Then, with one accord, the desperate men made a dash for the bush.

"Stop 'em!" cried Tom Cardiff. "Don't let 'em get away!"

"Come on!" yelled Blake to his chum. "We've got to get in this fracas!"

And as they dashed after the wreckers the moving picture camera in the hands of Mr. Hadley recorded view after view of the exciting scene.



CHAPTER XXII

A LIFE GUARD'S ALARM

Fortune played into the hands of our friends in two ways as they sought to capture the wreckers. Otherwise the desperate men might have gotten away, so quickly did they dash out of the clearing at the first alarm.

But, as he ran along, big Hemp Danforth, the leader of the criminals, stumbled and fell. Right behind him was sturdy Tom Cardiff, and the assistant lighthouse keeper was quick to take advantage of the chance thus put in his way.

"I've got you!" he yelled, as he fairly threw himself on the prostrate wrecker. "I've got you! Give up, you varmint!"

There was a struggle, none the less desperate because the wrecker was underneath. The two rolled on the ground until Tom got a grip on his opponent. Then, by putting forth his enormous strength, Tom quickly subdued the man.

"Give up, I tell you!" panted Tom, breathing hard. "I'll teach you to wreck ships. Give up!"

"I give up!" was the sullen response.

With a quick turn of the ropes he had brought, Tom had the wrecker trussed up.

Meanwhile the others had been busy. The secret service men had each tackled a man, and had him secure by now, while Joe and Blake, by mutual agreement picking out another member of the party had, after a struggle, succeeded in tying him, too.

But the wreckers outnumbered our friends two to one, and some, if not all, of the desperate characters might have escaped had not reinforcements appeared. These were in the shape of four sturdy fishermen from the little colony where the moving picture boys lived.

"Oh, if we could only capture the others!" cried Tom Cardiff, when he had finished with his man, and saw some of the wreckers struggling to make their way through the thick bush. "Come on, boys!" he yelled to his friends. "When you finish with those fellows keep after the rest of the gang, though I'm afraid they'll give us the slip."

"No, they won't!" cried a new voice, and then appeared the husky toilers of the sea, armed with stout clubs. At the sight of them the wreckers not yet captured gave up in despair. Counting those tied up, the forces were now equal, and as Mr. Hadley had taken all the moving pictures possible, owing to the struggle taking place out of range of his camera, he left the apparatus, and joined his friends.

"Well, we got 'em!" cried Tom Cardiff, as he surveyed the line of prisoners, fastened together with ropes. "Every one of 'em, I guess. You're a nice crowd!" he sneered at big Hemp Danforth. "A nice lot of men to be let loose!"

"A little later and you wouldn't have had us!" snarled the leader of the wreckers. "You were too many for us."

"That's so," spoke Tom. "How did you happen to come to help us?" he asked of Abe Haskill, who was one of the reinforcing fishermen. "Who sent you?"

"Old Stanton telephoned over from the lighthouse," was the answer. "He said you were on your way here, and that the gang might be too much for you. So I got a couple of my friends, and over we came—just in time, too, I take it."

"That's right!" exclaimed Blake, trying to staunch the flow of blood from a cut on his face, received in the fight he and Joe had with their prisoner. Joe himself was somewhat bruised. "A little later and we'd had only half of 'em," went on Blake.

"It looks as if the lantern was nearly finished, too," went on Joe.

"Um!" sneered the chief wrecker. "You may think you have us, but it's a long way from proving anything against us. What have we done that's wrong?" and he looked defiantly at Tom Cardiff.

"Wrong!" cried the lighthouse man. "Don't you call it wrong to set up a false light to lure unsuspecting captains on the rocks, so you can get your pickings? Wrong!"

"Huh! How do you know but what this light was put here as a range finder for us fishermen?" asked the other.

"Fishermen! Why, you men never did an honest day's fishing in your lives!" cried Abe Haskill. "Fishing! When you haven't been smuggling you've been wrecking, or robbing other honest men's nets. You're a bunch of scoundrels, and it's the best day's work we've done in many a year to get you!"

"That's all right," retorted Hemp, easily. "Words don't prove anything."

"They don't; eh?" cried Tom Cardiff. "You'll see what they do. We'll convict you by your own words!"

"Our own words?" asked Hemp Danforth, uneasily.

"Yes, overheard by these two lads, whom you chased but couldn't catch. I guess when Blake Stewart and Joe Duncan go into court, and testify about hearing you talk of wrecking vessels by your false lantern, the jury'll convict you, all right!"

Hemp seemed less concerned with what Tom said than with the name Joe Duncan. As this was uttered the wrecker looked at the two lads.

"Did I understand him to say that one of you is a Duncan?" asked Hemp, curiously.

"I am," replied Joe.

"Are you Nate Duncan's son?"

"I hope so—yes, I'm sure I am."

"Ha! Ha!" laughed the wrecker.

"What's the joke?" inquired Tom Cardiff.

"This, and it's a good one, too. You think to convict us on the testimony of Nate Duncan's son. Why, Nate is one of us! His son's evidence wouldn't be any good. Besides, a son wouldn't help to convict his father. That's a good one. Nate Duncan is one of us!"

"That's not so!" burst out Joe, jumping toward the big wrecker, as though to strike him. "It isn't true. My father never was a wrecker."

"He wasn't; eh?" sneered Hemp. "Well, I'm not saying we are, either; but if your father isn't a wrecker why did he run away before the officers came for him? Answer me that—if you can!"

"I—I—" began Joe, when Blake stepped to his chum's side.

"Don't answer him," counseled Blake. "It will only make matters worse. It will all come out right."

"I'm sure of it," said Joe. "Poor Dad, I wish he were here to defend himself; but, as he isn't, I'll stick up for him."

"Well, if you're through talking I guess we'll move along," suggested Tom at this point. "There are a few empty cells in the jail at San Diego, I understand, and they'll just about accommodate you chaps."

"Are—are you going to put us in jail?" faltered one of the prisoners, a young man.

"That's what we are," answered Tom.

"Oh, don't. I'll tell—I'll——"

"You'll keep still—that's what you'll do!" snapped Hemp. "I'll fix you if you don't!" and he glared at the youth in such a way that the latter said no more. "I'll manage this thing," went on Hemp. "You keep still and they can't do a thing to us. Now go ahead; take us to jail if you want to."

"That's what we will," declared Tom, and a little later the prisoners were on their way to San Diego, where they were locked up. Some suspected wreckers had been taken into custody when Mr. Duncan was accused, but nothing had been proved against them.

"Well, that was a good day's work!" declared Mr. Hadley late that afternoon, when he and the moving picture boys were back at their quarters. "We not only got the wreckers, but a fine film of the capture besides."

"And we're in it," said Blake. "Joe, how will it seem to see yourself on a screen?"

"Oh, rather odd, I guess," and Joe spoke listlessly.

"Now look here!" exclaimed his chum. "I know what's worrying you. It's what Hemp said about your father; isn't it?"

"Yes, Blake, it is."

"Well then, you just stop thinking about it. Before you know it your father may arrive in Hong Kong, get your letter, and send back an answer. Then everything will be cleared up. Meanwhile, we've got to get busy; there are a lot of films to make, I understand."

"Indeed there are," declared Mr. Ringold. "I have my sea drama all ready for the films now. I don't know what to do about a wreck, though. I'm afraid I can't make it realistic enough. I must make other plans about that scene. But get your cameras in good shape, boys, for there is plenty of work ahead."

"We can keep right on the job," said Joe, "for I guess we've about cleaned up the wreckers."

No members of the gang had escaped, as far as could be learned, and the renewed work of getting evidence to be used at the trial was in the hands of the government men. The false lantern, which had first given the boys the clue, was taken down, and proved to be a most ingenious piece of apparatus. Had it been used it would undoubtedly have lured some ships on the rocks.